The Ghost of Christmas Probable
by compassrose7577
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Jack has an unexpected visitor that procedes to show him his future--or what could be--maybe--possibly--on the off-handed chance--depending on if he's naughty or nice.
1. Chapter 1

bAuthor:/b compassrose7577

bRating:/b PG (We all have to have a bit of child in us this time of year)

bPairing:/b Jack and an OC

bDisclaimer:/b I own or claim nothing. I would, if I could, but I can't so I don't.

bSummary:/b : In the spirit of the season, I offer this little token, my first Christmas fic. Before anyone's knickers get all twisted, I realize I've taken some liberties with the historical accuracies, but, after all, it's Christmas! Hopefully, that little indiscretion won't spoil you're ability to enjoy it.

bA/N:/b I owe a large thank you to lj user ="hlmit" for a large chunk of concrit and beta. She has been my little beta fairy, working her little nimble fingers to the bone. I owe a large THANK YOU to everyone who has been so supportive and thoughtful throughout the year—my first year at lj.

Merry Christmas!

lj-cut text

bfont size= "5"The/font/b clangs of the watch bell jerked Jack awake. Struggling to pry his lids open, he laid with his head on the table, his charts for a pillow, and peered about, trying to clear the fog in his head sufficiently to consider moving.

Summoning the courage, he finally straightened. He scrubbed his face hard in his hands, hoping to quell the dull thud that made his eyes feel as if they were going to pop out and roll across the table. With a dour scowl, he picked up the rum bottle at his elbow and scrutinized its contents against the light of the candle.

It didn't seem like he'd drunk that much—not enough to render him cold as a dead fish already, at any rate. And it's never given him this variety of a headache before. He shot a malevolent glare toward the cabin doors and beyond.

The decks were aglow with lights: lanterns, lamps, torches and candles. The men had toiled for the last two days, gathering the boughs of pine and other greens that now festooned every surface of the I_Black Pearl/I_. The old girl did, indeed, glow like a veritable jewel as she sat on the bay's dark waters. The night air was heavy with the mingled fragrances of wax, oil, pine, spiced grog and the special holiday meal Mr. Kirkland, the cook, had labored over for two days.

Full to the gills and complacent as fed puppies, his crew sprawled about the decks, singing everything from I_Adeste Fideles/I_ to sea chanties. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist or Sikh, the spirit on the I_Pearl/I_ had caught them all up, regardless of their cultural and religious differences, and they came together in a mutual celebration, each man celebrating the joys of his native holiday in his heart. At that moment, the men were hushed, as a quartet of the Spanish-speaking crewmen offered a somber version of I_La Noche Navidad_./I

Another smell, unusual on his ship, but sparking memories, nonetheless, reached his nose at the same time as a scuffing sound brought his attention around to the far side of his cabin, where a man—whom he had never seen before—sat in an overstuffed, red velvet chair—which he had never seen before, either.

Lounged comfortably, with his feet propped on a low stool, was a portly, elderly man. Broad-faced and balding, he sported an expansive white beard and dazzling white hair that draped his shoulders in heavy waves. Dimples, a cherry-round nose and cheeks like roses topped off his features. A brazier burned merrily a small distance from his elbow. The dance of it's flames added a cozy, hominess to the cabin, heretofore, unnoticed. Jack glanced ruefully at his own burner in its corner niche, long dark and cold.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Jack demanded. Lurching up, he anchored one hand on the table as he swayed. Groping for his weapon with the other hand, Jack remembered, only then, his sword and pistol lay in the seat of the chair across from where he stood—so near and yet, so far.

With an air of confident nonchalance, the man withdrew the pipe clamped between his teeth.

"I go by many names; Nick will do, for now." His voice was deep, and yet somehow comforting, with an odd Germanic accent.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Jack visually checked the cabin, his eyes frantically darting to every corner, searching for accomplices, wondering how the blazes he had gotten aboard. "How did you get in here?"

The watches were still at their posts; certainly, someone would have noticed a dory approaching, even in the midst of the festivities! On the other hand, even if a boat had managed to come alongside, the little man hardly appeared the type to scale a rope…with a chair in tow.

Slowly, Jack confirmed they were alone and relaxed, realizing he had nothing to dread. Overall, the old gaffer didn't seem a bad sort.

The white-haired stranger closed one eye against the pipe smoke that curled around his head like a wreath. "I'm making my rounds."

"Rounds, eh?" echoed Jack, strolling slowly closer, his guard dropping. "Are you some kind of physician, or something?"

"No," the stranger answered casually, hooking a thumb in his wide black belt that matched his patent-leather boots. "I cater to the more…visionary matters of life." He paused to give Jack a level look. "I'm from the future, Jack…I_your/I_ future."

Nick gave the last words an extra, suggestive push, and lifted his brows, as if he expected Jack to be surprised, or taken aback.

"Hardly the stuff of wonderment," Jack snorted, disgusted by the feeble-handed attempt to unsettle him. His head was throbbing harder, and he wished the man would just go away, so he could enjoy peacefully wallowing in his own misery. "Look…"

"Nick, just call me Nick."

"All right…Nick." Arranging his arms across his chest, Jack propped himself against the table, crossing his ankles, in an effort to assume the same blasé as his visitor. "You've no idea the things I've seen, the things…"

Nick's mouth drew up like a bow, his eyes narrowing to slits above the rosy cheeks. "Oh, don't I?" There was a definite derisive sound in his voice.

"No," hissed Jack, growing more irritable. No, this was different, and yet the same, the same eerie, improbably impossible, foul luck—or something! "No, I think not, I…"

"I'm here on behalf of your children, Jack." It was a simple statement, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone and a level eye.

Jack froze, momentarily speechless. "Children?" he gulped, finally finding his voice as he held up a defensive hand. "Honest, mate, whatever she said, I never laid a hand on her…at least I don't think I did."

Nick laughed, a deep sound that shook his belly with the effort, disregarding Jack's objections, in the process. "I'm in the business of granting wishes—"

"You mean you _give_ someone what they want?" He narrowed his eyes, surveying Nick in disbelief. "Sounds like a line of business that would be blessedly difficult to make a profit in."

Silently, puffing on his pipe, Nick gave Jack a benign stare. Jack straightened, waving a dismissive hand. "Sorry, mate, I'm in no need of your services; me compass does all that."

"I'm not here for you, Jack," continued Nick firmly, unperturbed by Jack's quip. "I'm here for your children. They've made a wish—all three of them."

"Three?" The word was uttered in a strangled gasp. He gulped noisily. "That was fast!"

Drumming his fingers on his belt, Nick smiled in a knowing way, his eyes twinkling. "Let's just say you and your wife are very prolific."

"Wife?" For the third time in as many minutes, Jack found himself struggling for words and the ability to breathe. He staggered back, groping behind him for support.

Nick gave him a narrow look. "You needn't repeat everything I say," he said around the stump of his pipe he held tight in his teeth.

"Then make sense, man!"

Regaining his composure, Jack straightened, squaring his shoulders more squarely than usual and took a challenging stance, the confrontation softened considerably by the uncertain, wary shift of his eyes.

"How do you know me name? I might not even be the man you're looking for."

It was a desperate move, but a challenge nonetheless. Mistakes had been made before—false identities, misidentifications. It was a thin thread, but one he would snatch at anyway.

Nick paused for a moment, studying Jack as if he were checking a list. "You I_are/I_ your children's father, am I correct?"

"How do I know?" Jack burst, his hands exploding in the air. "God knows, there's lots of men that put it round. Could be anyone, for all I know!"

"Then your name is 'Jack'," Nick finished, blithely ignoring Jack's objections. It was a simple conclusion, made with quiet confidence—and not a shred of logic.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," Jack corrected with an exclamatory finger. "If you please, sir."

"They only know their father's name is 'Jack'. It was all I needed," Nick finished with an indifferent hitching of one shoulder.

Taking his pipe from his mouth, Nick studied it closely, rolling it pensively between his fingers. Then the bright blue eyes looked up, stern and direct. "Your children have made a wish."

"You said that," Jack retorted, making a face as he strolled to the table.

"I know." Nick considered Jack through a curtain of beetling, white brows. "You seem reluctant to believe me."

Seizing an empty cup from the table—at least he hoped it was empty—Jack spun on his heel and hurled it. Nick tried to duck, but limited by the chair, failed and was hit in the arm.

"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing his arm. "What was that for?"

Jack raised his arms, and lifted his shoulders, at least having the good graces to look abashed. "Needed to know if you were real or not, mate," he stammered. "I've had me experiences with the not-so-living, spirits, ghosts, and the like. It didn't go well, not a'tall. Look," he began, moving closer, "I hate to tarnish this little shiny world of yours, but I don't have a wife and I…"

"Not now," Nick qualified, passively.

Jack rocked back, propping his hands on his hips, puzzled. "But…you just said I did."

Nick nodded agreeably. "You do."

"Bloody hell, make sense, man!" Jack growled. He stalked to the table and snatched up the rum bottle. Nick watched, concern etching the deep creases above his cheeks.

"Do you drink a lot of that?" Nick asked, with a heavy note of disapproval.

Lowering the bottle, Jack squinted in defiance, nodding. "Sometimes," he answered, after swallowing.

An outburst of laughter drew Nick's attention to the door, a pleasurable smile tugging one corner of his bow mouth at the sound of Gibbs' baritone in full voice.

"Your men are out there celebrating, and yet you're in here…alone. Why?"

With the bottle dangling from his arm, Jack stared out the window at the nightscape beyond. The room suddenly felt stuffy, and he pushed open a window. Braced on the jam, he drew in the night air in deep draughts.

"This time of year doesn't suit me." His head hung between the hunch of his shoulders, his hair falling in a corded curtain. "Truth be told...I hate it," he whispered into the protective shadows.

A silence fell between them, filled only by the drifting sound of the men singing, and the low hiss of the brazier burning. Finally, Nick spoke, choosing his words carefully. "You didn't always feel that way, did you?"

"Certainly did!" Jack retorted. Slamming the window closed, he found his own image staring back at him, hollow-eyed and unfocused in the dim light. "Well…not always," he equivocated, running a finger through his reflection. His arm dropped limply to his side. "Just…lately…that's all."

Like a confessor, Nick silently watched as Jack slumped in his chair and picked up the bottle, glumly turning it in his hands. "Me mum died this time of year," he said, intent on the bottle. "A baby sister, too—never had a chance to open her eyes and see the world."

Nick thoughtfully pulled on his pipe, its embers' glow reflecting on the rose of his cheeks, the rasp filling the quiet of the room. "It's a common tale." A heart-felt sadness and regrets hung on each word. "There are many sorrows this time of year. Hence, my purpose," he added, attempting to lighten the cabin's mood, "to spread a little cheer, lift people from their misery; make things merry and bright…for as many as I can."

Too restless to sit, Jack rose and returned to the gallery windows. The moon was well-risen, glittering on the water in mercurial flashes. The blue-black outline of the trees and hills beyond was haloed in the silvery, blue-white of the night.

It could have been such a night; at the time, he hadn't been of a mind to notice. Jack clamped his eyes shut against the memories that came tumbling over him: A small boy, cowering in a corner, behind a chair, desperately clutching a small, still bundle. He snapped his lids open, forcing them wide, in an effort to keep the visions at bay.

"How old were you, Jack?"

Jack's brow knit as he dropped his head. "Thirteen." He slowly breathed, in and out, several times. "Old enough, too old to be a child, but too young to be a man."

Whirling around, his ornaments clattering, he glared at Nick, dark and accusing. "If you're such a I_wish-giver/I_, where were you when I made I_my/I_ wishes?" Turning back to the window, he planted his arms wide on the window frame, his hands curling into fists. "When me mum died, I wished….I wished and I wished and I wished….but nothing…"

Jack fell quiet, clamping his lower lip between his teeth. "And then, years later, I lost me ship. Bottom of the ocean she was, and I wished and wished and…" He shook himself, as if to be rid of the memories. "Finally, I had to make a deal with the Devil." He glowered over his shoulder. "Where were you then?"

Nick's normally good-humored face clouded, his bushy brows drawn tight. "I didn't exist…then. I've only been in the hearts of children for the last…while."

Suddenly, the room seemed too warm even for the windows to cool. Tugging at the neck of his shirt, Jack glared at the brazier. "This is the Caribbean, you know. Do you really need that thing?"

Nick glanced blandly over his shoulder. "It's rather cold, where I come from; difficult for me to warm up, sometimes."

Fed by irritability, Jack grew restless again, and commenced pacing, feeling the weight of Nick's eyes follow him as he paralleled the gallery. The smell of the pipe cloyed in his nose, reminding him of another pipe, wedged in a cragged mouth, and a face, dark and creased, with ebony eyes that could drill a hole straight to one's soul.

"Do you have to smoke that thing?" Jack barked, batting at a smoke ring as it curled his head. "Stinking up the whole blessed place! Won't be fit for man nor beast!"

Nick withdrew the offensive object from his mouth and held it up in exhibition. "Does it bother you?"

It seemed a fairly stupid question, all things considered, but then Jack saw it for what it was and relented.

"Yes…no, no." He flapped a vaguely apologetic hand. "Never mind; it's fine. I learned to live with it long ago."

Still pacing, he finally halted; feet braced wide in challenge, squarely before the chair. Crossing his arms he tilted his head back and viewed Nick down the long line of his nose.

"You say I have a wife," he demanded, rocking on his toes. "Who is she?"

Nick lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Doesn't matter…just now."

"Matters to me!" Jack blurted hotly, swerving away to resume his journey back and forth;

his agitation growing with each pass, muttering under his breath.

Slowly, Jack calmed, conceding to Nick's authority—regardless of where it might come from. He stopped at the world globe, his finger tracing the curve.

"Am I happy? I mean her and I….I and her…us…" He slid a curious, tentative look from the corner of his dark-rimmed eye, cautious and afraid to hear the answer. Swallowing his fears, he went on. "Are we happy?" His brows drew up in a hopeful wishful ness.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, would you, Jack?"

Nick's insights were disquietingly accurate. How the blazes he knew was beyond Jack's comprehension, but the odd little, elfin man was correct: There was only one way he would ever make that sort of commitment, one standard, one condition. There were few matters in his life that were sacrosanct. Once that oath had been given, he'd stand by that pledge with every ounce of his being—I_if_!/I

Resuming his previous position against the sill, Jack posed a sage confidence. "I've long since discovered what you want, and what you get, are often diametrically opposed."

Now, it was Nick who stared out the gallery windows. The bright blue eyes stared past the indigo vista, as if seeking answers from something much more distant. "It isn't important—just now—who your wife is."

"You'll forgive me, but it's a very significant and salient point to me," Jack pointed out heatedly as he rose from the sill. "Contrary old geezer, aren't you?" he shot over his shoulder as he stalked back to his chair.

Nick shifted, quietly chuckling to himself, rearranging his legs then raised the point of his beard. "I'm considered by some to be a right jolly old elf."

Jack slid a doubting, sideways look as he raised the rum bottle to his lips. "Then they must have been daft."

"I heard the bells. Is it only six o'clock?"

"No!" scoffed Jack, rolling his eyes as he lowered the bottle. "That was eleven bells; haven't spent much time on a ship, have you mate?"

"I prefer other modes of transportation." The pipe dropped slowly from Nick's mouth, and he squinted one eye in curiosity. "What's that on the side of your head?"

Jack reached up a self-conscious hand, touching the bone that dangled there. "This?"

Frowning, Nick nodded. "How did you come by that?"

"Um, long story." Jack shifted, uneasy under Nick's scrutiny. "It's from a reindeer."

"I thought so," Nick murmured, nodding. His face clouded. "I may have known that one." He shook himself, returning to his appointed rounds. "We haven't much time."

"For what?"

"For you to decide if your children are to get their wish or not," explained Nick, unperturbed.

Jack jumped on the small flaw in Nick's argument. "I thought you said that was your area of expertise."

"I need your help; it's December 24th…"

"I know the bloody date!" Jack took a deep breath, re-composing himself. "Me mother died on this date. What difference is it to you?"

"I have to know your answer before midnight," Nick warned. "Once it's the 25th, it's too late."

Jack spread his arms as he stalked toward Nick's chair. "I don't even know the question!"

As Nick locked stares with Jack, the light around him faded, dark folding up around him like a thick quilt. The blood began to pound in Jack's ears with a rushing sound, like the one that comes just before one faints. The bulkheads and beams overhead hazed and swirled, like cream into coffee, spiraling into a vortex that seemed to center beyond nowhere. His legs went to jelly, wobbling and unsteady. The walls and ceiling both melded and pulled apart, at the same time, the gallery windows were moving, shrinking and expanding.

As the windows curved and arched overhead, snow swirled and pattered against the thick-paned glass. Jack suddenly had the sense of being inside a snow globe, looking out. The vista outside coalesced into a landscape of hills and fencerows, the moon gleaming on the breast of new-fallen snow, with the luster of midday. The arrowhead-shaped pine trees were dark against the slate sweep, their snow-laden limbs sagging under their burden.

The roar in his ears grew near deafening, and the anticipated—and now welcomed—dark of oblivion took him away.

To Be Continued……Part Two


	2. Chapter 2

**It **felt to Jack as though the same vortex, that drew him in, had reversed, and spit him back out into a growing pool of light. The moving bulkheads coalesced into a scene—a sitting room, bathed in the burnishing light of candles and fire. Comfortable furniture was loosely arranged and anchored to the grand hearth by a brightly colored Turkish rug.

Jack had the sense he was standing among the footlights, watching the first act of a play, put on by the room's occupants, three youngsters, two playing on the floor and a third was seated in a fireside chair.

Glancing quickly about, Jack could have sworn he had been swept away to some unknown place, but found he did, indeed, remain in his cabin. The room was a bizarre blend of reality and delusion, with Nick and his chair now on the opposite side of the cabin, nestled deep in the shadows of the inglenook. Half-obscured in the dim, Nick was still comfortably reclined in his worn velvet cushions, the coals of the brazier still aglow at his side.

Looking back at the hearthside, Jack found himself thinking it was a setting he had always dreamed of as a boy, a snuggery of family, warmth and comfort.

He gave Nick a questioning look. "I take it that is them?"

Silence was his answer, but Jack knew his assumptions to be correct. Drawn forward, Jack started toward the room but was blocked by an unseen force, a hand on his shoulder preventing him.

"You aren't here." The warning came from the shadows behind him, disjointed and bodiless.

Jack scowled, curling his lip in confusion. "You said you wanted me here."

"Later."

Rolling his eyes, perturbed, Jack spread his hands, seeking a clarification. "So why now?"

Nick leaned forward, his face coming into the light. He briefly surveyed the scene before them then slid a bright blue eye toward Jack. "I thought perhaps a little illustration would be more persuasive."

"So, who's who?" inquired Jack, craning his neck.

"That's Miriam," Nick began, pointing to the smallest, sitting on a worn quilt in front of a rocking chair, engrossed with a rag doll. "She's the youngest, she's three--although there is another one on the way," he added, arching a suggestive brow. Jack shifted uncomfortably, bearing an awkward, half-smile.

"John Christopher, over there," he went on, nodding to the boy sprawled on his stomach before the fire, "he's six. And Jacqueline," he added, his voice softening, "is the oldest; she's seven."

"Bloody stair steps."

"Yes," Nick mused. "As I said, you and your wife are very…"

"'Prolific' is what you said." Craning his neck further, Jack peered hopefully around the room. "And their mother, is she about?"

With a patient look, Nick closed his eyes for a moment, as if in thought. "She's in the kitchen, I believe."

"So…she lives?" Jack held his breath, fearing the answer.

Nick nodded solemnly, giving Jack a quizzical look, considering their conversation just a few seconds earlier. "Yes, they have their mother."

Closing a fist in affirmation, Jack nodded with satisfied relief. "That's good; a child should have its mother." Jack's throat tightened and he paused to clear it. Seeking to change the subject, he scanned the room, mildly surprised. "'Pears to be a fair house."

Nick glanced about, as if noticing for the first time. "Yes, they've been very well provided for." He turned enough to give Jack an accusing look. "They should have a father, as well. That's their wish Jack: They want their father."

Jack frowned, scanning the surroundings. "Where am I?"

Nick drew several puffs on his pipe, the smoke curling in a heavy cloud around his head. "Not here."

"I know that! I can bloody well see that, but where am I?"

"Not here," Nick repeated, eliciting a disgusted sound from Jack. "To them, you're not here; the rest doesn't really matter."

"Then how….what…."Jack sputtered, "if I'm not here, but there…somewhere…then how….what…"

He paused. Floundering in confusion, Jack wished he had thought to grab the rum bottle, before he had been so annoyingly whisked from his cabin. Looking up, he realized the folly of that argument. In a sense, he was still in his cabin, the smoke-darkened beams and black oak bulkheads still in place. Heaving a sigh, he surrendered. "What do we have to do?"

"It's what _you_ have to do."

Jack pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "You're making me head spin." He continued in decisive, single words. "What has to be done by _whomever_?"

The glow of Nick's pipe was the only evidence of his presence, burning red-hot with each draw. The leather of his belt creaked as he moved, rearranging himself in the deep velvet cushions. "They need you to be a good man…. change your ways."

Grimacing, Jack flinched. "Sounds like a bloody sentence."

"C'mon Jack!" Nick was pleasantly coaxing, but a sense of urgency hung on his features. "Isn't that what every man wants most in life, to see his wife and children happy?"

"I don't even know who she is, yet!" Jack argued, half-pouting. "Besides, me compass never said anything about all this," he finished with a wave of his hand.

"That compass is for what _you_ want Jack," Nick explained patiently, tapping the pipe's bowl on the palm of his hand. "This is for your family."

Taking advantage of Nick's distraction with his pipe, Jack turned back to the room, inexplicably drawn to it. A stack of logs burned steadily in the grand fireplace, the soft crackling and popping of the wood, and the murmurs of the flames a backdrop. It's light and heat radiated, reflecting off every surface, including the young faces.

Jack made to move closer, enticed by the vignette, but stopped, hesitant. "May I?"

Nick closed his eyes and gave a benevolent nod. "Of course."

Carefully, Jack tiptoed around the furniture toward Jacqueline. She sat near a small table, leaned toward a lamp, diligently stitching. Slim and fine-boned, her head was bent over her needlework, a fall of glossy, black curls cascading in coils over her shoulder. Jack bent closer, and peeked at her work, her long, delicate fingers plucking rhythmically at the needle. The linen sampler's letters were in precise, even rows, with swirls of vines and flowers. Creatures and houses were tucked among the vines, with the image of a black ship centered at the very bottom. At the top, a heart-shape had been outlined, the letters 'JS' was boldly scripted.

Jack tilted his head, examining her more closely, a crooked smile growing. The fire lit her face, flickering in her eyes and reflecting in the jet of her hair. "She looks like Mum."

"She looks like you," Nick corrected.

Jack straightened, glancing hopefully among the three youngsters. "Any of them look like their mother?"

Nick laughed, deep and soft, his stomach bouncing. "No, they all take after you, Jack. You couldn't deny a one of them, even if you wanted."

As Jack leaned down again, a strand of his hair slid forward, falling next to Jacqueline's. Startled, he couldn't help but notice the similarities, a visual reality of their connection.

The air in the room was thick with the resin smell of pine that emanated from the boughs draped across the mantle. A multitude of scents wafted from the kitchen, heavy, warm cooking smells of ginger, cinnamon, rum, sugar and fruit. One scent, in particular, caught Jack's nose, and he inhaled deeply, rolling his eyes closed.

"Mince!" he sighed. "I haven't had mince in… over twenty years."

Jack arched his eyebrows, leaning toward the kitchen in anticipation. "You don't suppose they would have a bit o' rum punch on hand, do you?" He slumped at Nick's steady stare. "No, I suppose not," he muttered, curling his lip in disappointment.

Slipping around Jacqueline, Jack moved past the hearth to John. The boy sprawled on his stomach on the rug, feet toward the crackling fire, playing with lead soldiers, making muted, battle noises as he maneuvered the miniature men across the rug.

"Sturdy lad," Jack observed, in admiring approval.

"John's a good boy." Nick laced his fingers together across the expanse of his stomach. "He insists he's not to be called Jack, Jr.—says it's too much like his sister's name. He's the one who contacted me first."

"Contrary and headstrong, already," said Jack, the hook of his mustache pulling up one side of his mouth.

Grunting in frustration, John roughly knocked back from his face a heavy fall of black hair that obscured his vision.

"Poor lad," Jack said, shaking his head in sympathy. "Me mum couldn't wait until me hair grew enough to tie it back. The old wives said I had so much hair hanging in me eyes, I'd go blind trying to see through it."

Jack dropped his eyes for a moment, unable to face the realities that were unfolding before him. Summoning his resolve, he moved on, stepping over his son's legs toward the youngest. From the first, as he had been working his way around the room, Jack kept one ear cocked toward the kitchen and its echoing voices, dotted with feminine laughter, occasionally sneaking a glimpse, but heard nothing that could be considered any sort of an identifying sound, nothing that could ever be a guide to his future intended.

Just a peek, a hint, a mere suggestion of whom it might be, was all he asked. What if he met her and didn't know it—passed her by, without so much as a look?

"You'll look."

Jack jerked, snapped from his reverie by the sound of Nick' voice. "What?"

Nick's eyes twinkled in his shadowed corner. "I said 'You'll look'—when you meet her. You'll look."

"How did you know what I was thinking?" Jack demanded, rearing back indignantly.

"It's my specialty, remember?"

"Thought children were your specialty," Jack muttered, crossly, sidling around the fire screen and a small stool.

"The wishes, yes." Nick chuckled, a droll hearty sound. "Don't worry, Jack, you won't miss her. You'll know her, from the very first."

Pausing in his maneuvers, Jack frowned, discomfited by his transparent curiosity. "Will she know me?"

"In a sense, yes."

"Then why can't I see her now?" Jack argued, flinging an arm toward the unseen kitchen. "What's the harm, if we already will know what we already know?"

"Rules."

"Rules? Oh, you mean like a Code?" The word stopped Jack in mid-step, straddling a toy horse on wheels. "Aye, well, I know a bit and am familiar with such things meself. I'm in full and total sympathy with your predicament."

The youngest, Miriam, was still playing with her doll, busily plucking at the black-yarned braids and button eyes. As Jack squatted down for a better look, Miriam looked up. Equally dark as her brother and sister, her small features, framed in a tangled cloud of black, were still snubbed and round, but showed promise to be as appealing as her siblings. Her onyx eyes focused on Jack and she broke into a baby-toothed smile.

Jack looked up at Nick in delighted shock. "She sees me?"

Nick tipped his head, nodding, as surprised as Jack. "So it would seem."

Jack winked at Miriam, grinning. "She has the sight, just like Mum."

"Just like you, too, if you would ever stop ignoring it."

"How do you know?" asked Jack, distracted from his facial antics.

Nick looked away, in false innocence. "Oh, I hear stories…rumors."

Jack made eyes at Miriam, bulging them wide and shifting them wildly from side to side. She sputtered a moisture-laden giggle, her eyes growing in fascination, clutching her doll to her chest.

"She likes me!"

"She should." Even Nick seemed softened by the familial exchange. "You brought her into this world."

Jack's head swerved toward Nick. "You mean, I had to…" Jack gulped as he swept a vaguely descriptive hand.

Nick nodded, lifting one shoulder and letting it fall. "Wasn't much choice; she came early and fast. No one else was to be had."

Unable to resist, Jack made another face, twiddling his fingers and mouthing words.

Miriam chortled a belly laugh then held her doll out in offering. Out of reflex, Jack reached out, but was halted by the sound of Nick sharply clearing his throat. He slowly dropped his arm to its place on his thigh and watched intently as Miriam resumed playing, seeing the sister that never lived—the possibilities of what could have been.

He finally dropped his forehead to his palm and tiredly ground it in. "What's to be done?"

Nick leaned heavily on one armrest, his blue eyes, bright even in the shadows, narrowed to triangles over the curve of his cheeks as a wave of relief washed over him. "They want their father…here."

It wasn't a far stretch of the imagination for Jack to remember those same kinds of nights, when he was John or Jacqueline's age, wishing for an absent father who never came. As he surveyed the three offspring, he wondered if as part of his legacy, along with black hair and dark eyes, he also had passed on the father who never came.

Blowing his daughter a departing kiss, Jack reluctantly rose, his fingers drifting toward the downy, black head as he passed.

"So, how does this work?" Jack crossed his arms and stood with as much determination as he could manage before the chair. "I agree, and you leave me here? Do I come in through the door or something?"

"No, Jack, you don't just walk into your future," Nick explained with the patience most would offer a child. "You have other things to do first. It's very simple: You agree and your children get their wish."

"And if I don't?"

Nick sobered, his mouth pressing into a firm line as he considered. "Then….nothing." For the first time, Jack noticed a hint of hopelessness. "They don't get their wish and they'll be a little disappointed." Nick looked up, forcing an affable smile. "But then, what's a little disappointment, eh Jack? Life is going to give them enough of that anyway…what's a little more?"

"What about my…wife?" Jack had hoped to be more forceful, but he couldn't help stumbling over the word. "What's her wish?"

"I'm here for these three," Nick answered without hesitation or reservation. "There are very few adults who make their wishes known to me." He paused, squinting one eye, thoughtfully. "Although, I have had a few faint murmurs…rumors, actually…I suspect…but wishful, nonetheless."

He gave Jack an encouraging nudge with the toe of his boot. "C'mon Jack! You're a good man! Your crew knows you're a good man, your wife knows you're a good man, your children all know you're a good man. Just admit it to yourself and be that person, that's all!"

They were chilling words to Jack, ones that had led him to perdition, forfeiture and damnation, nearly destroying him in the process. He had survived, but barely, and feared the probabilities of ever managing that vast task again.

Jack inched away, shying at Nick's familiarity. "Not near as simple as you make it out to be." Twisting his jaw in thought, Jack slid a wary look toward Nick. "Nothing more: No strings, amendments, curses, hidden codicils, promises or attachments?"

Nick gave his head an adamant shake. "No, that's it," he replied. "One simple deed."

Jack brightened with an inspiration. "Why can't I just stay here…now? Might make things a whole lot easier." His brows drew up in wishful hopefulness.

Nick shook his head with the same fervor, his brows drawing together in negation. "You're needed other places, Jack; first there, then here. A few minutes ago, you refused to believe you were married."

"Yes, well, time flies when you're having fun!"

Again, and annoyingly so, Nick was correct: At this point, did it really matter who was in the kitchen, what woman awaited? Clearly, at some time or another, the choice had—or rather would—be made; the rest was only the finer details. The condition and product of that union was inescapably evident here—three products, to be exact—in a setting that exuded love, devotion, affection…

"It's all very simple, Jack. This can all be yours…even better, but you have to decide now, before it's the 25th. Otherwise, it's too late. Now or never, Jack."

Jack surveyed his surroundings, desperately trying to take in every last detail before he left, to give himself something he could hold on to—a talisman, that could serve as his anchor, until he could return.

As he moved from face to face, he wondered if his own mother had sensed the same passing on of the generations. The weight of it's import was staggering: home, family, children. These three beings were of his making, a passing on of himself—just as he carried his mother, and her mother before—infinitely before and infinitely beyond.

Never! Never, in all his most outlandish, intoxicated or morose moments, had he visualized himself in this scenario. And yet—at that very moment—it seemed to be the only possibility possible.

"How could any bastard leave this?" he whispered aloud.

Mute, too choked for words, the backs of his eyes stinging, Jack nodded.

With a satisfied wink, Nick laid his finger beside his nose and…….

**The **sound of the watch bell's clang yanked Jack awake. He rubbed his face vigorously then froze, peeking between his fingers.

He was back—or, had he ever gone?

Peering around, he verified the cabin was empty—no one was there. He could still hear the men outside singing…_La Noche Navidad_, still. And six bells was just rung.

It was all the same…again…or still…yet.

He shook himself, rattling his ornaments in an effort to clear the confusion.

_Bloody wearisome always wondering where you're going to be popping up next._

Maybe, it had all been a dream—an unexpected and unusual byproduct of the rum.

_Wife, home, children—never had that before. Enough to turn me white before me time._

The mention—albeit mental—of white pulled him short. Pivoting slowly, he checked the cabin again, assuring himself for a second time, it was clear of any strangers. Then the smell of tobacco—pipe smoke—still hanging in the air, met his nose. Stalking across the room, the toe of his boot scuffed into something on the carpet. He stooped down to dip his fingertips into a powdery, silver-gray substance, gritty and smooth at the same time, as he rubbed it between his fingers.

He carefully sniffed. "Ash."

A creeping feeling slithered down his back, as he rose, a soft patting noise drew him to the gallery. Following the sound and a wet trail across the wood, he discovered several small, white mounds on the windowsill, glittering icily in the moonlight.

"Snow."

In an urgent flash, he dove for the table and grabbed his compass. Closing his eyes for a moment, he summoned his fortitude as his fingers brushed the smooth ebony wood of its case, and then flipped open the lid.

With his eyes still closed, Jack waited. It seemed an eternity, as he willed it to stop, but, in reality, it had only been a few seconds. Finally, unable to wait, he cracked one eye open, and swore. The damnable thing was still spinning, one way and then the other, just as it had done for the last…_however_ many months!

Disgruntled, Jack reached to snap it closed, but the dial slowed, zeroing in closer and closer to a heading. Sucking in a sharp breath, he held it, waiting as the arrow slowed, finally sweeping around to point directly at his chest.

"Bugger!"

Exhaling in an explosion of air, all of it came tumbling back, in stunning clarity, the place, the voices, the faces….the smiles. All of it!

He scanned his cabin again, empty and dark, the brazier back in its corner, empty and cold.

Out of the shadowed corner, a face rose, luminously dark-eyed and snub-nosed. Unlike all the others that haunted him his whole life, which he had ignored, this one he would heed.

"All right, Miriam," he murmured into the void. "I'm coming."

Circling the table, he snagged the rum bottle then paused in mid-step. Studying it, seeing it for the first time, as if it were a stranger, he set it back down and swaggered to the doorway.

"Oi!! Happy Christmas, mates! Let's all have a good night!!"


End file.
